


The Lonely House

by stravaganza, Yoen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All inside, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Divergence - Series 3, Cover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fanart, Fanmix, First Time, Fluff, Forgiveness, Frottage, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion Fic, Rutting, Series 3 Incompatible, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/pseuds/stravaganza, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoen/pseuds/Yoen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, Sherlock, and their reunion. The time spent apart, and the time waiting for them.<br/>Mine and wohnjatsons' fill for the 2013 Sherlock mini-bang challenge! Link to a fanmix inside!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: the fic is unbetaed. If you find any mistake, please tell me and I'll correct them.
> 
> Here's the fanmix we made for the fic! Listen while you read, if you want. :)  
> www.mediafire.com/download/fp5wm7229pf17l9/The%20Lonely%20House%20Fanmix.rar
> 
> Happy new year everyone, and enjoy the feels!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It had been two years since Sherlock had passed away, and yet he still could barely believe it."

 

Dull. The grey London sky was so dull. John had always been the first to jump in defence of London, when he was younger: he loved the fog, the damp cold, even the smog. But nowadays, he just felt numb. As if there was nothing good left for him in the world. And so he used that word, that same word he once rolled his eyes at, the same word he would never hear from his best friend again, but that the man seemed to have favoured during his life, enough to use it at everything: _dull_.

He sighed, and watched the cloud of his breath float in the air, to mingle with the ones in the sky, and the light mid-morning fog. Soon, it was impossible to locate. Not that he cared. He was still breathing, he could produce another. And so he did. He breathed in and out, slowly, pausing only to take a sip of his coffee. Bitter, without sugar, a bit like his life. He huffed a laugh at himself, lowering his gaze to the white word written on the cardboard cup holder. “Criterion”. As if sitting on a park bench with a coffee was going to change his life once again.

John shook his head, rubbing a hand down his face, stroking his tired eyes a bit and the moustache perched under his nose. _I’m bitter, too_ , he thought. It had been two years since Sherlock had passed away, and yet he still could barely believe it. True, he was starting to finally accept it. His miracle wasn’t going to happen, and it was time to move on. He had moved out from Baker Street, and didn’t intend to return there anytime soon; Speedy’s was his limit, and only for Mrs Hudson’s sake. He had had relationships, none of which very meaningful. That much hadn’t changed since his time with the detective. Mary was the only exception, but things hadn’t worked out in the end, after six months or so together. And to think he had hoped she’d be the one.

Problem was, and John would never admit it, not even under torture, that he had no space left in his heart. He had filled it with lost cases, faded hopes, deeply missed. His sister, his past relationships, the few serious ones at least, and now Sherlock, who he considered among his fallen comrades back in Afghanistan. Sometimes he still had nightmares. About the battlefield, about Bart’s, even about both. The best ones where the one where he got shot, too. In others he fell with Sherlock. He didn’t wake up startled and scared anymore, though. That was a very big step, his new psychiatrist had said. After much insistence, he had indulged in Mycroft’s offer. He knew he needed all the help he could get, and after a few months of restless nights he had given in. The doctor was a nice man, and most of the time they just chatted about cricket rather than his problems. After all, Mycroft was the one paying, and his avoidance of most topics surely said something about him, anyway. He didn’t even care what, or if every single word was uttered and sent to one of Mycroft’s minions to be analysed.

He liked to have someone who could act as a fixed point, a friend of sorts. Not that he had any of these, anymore. He had long since stopped feeling guilty for ignoring Lestrade’s phone calls, or Molly’s gaze whenever he passed by that damned hospital during his walks. John had had to resume them, after his limp had returned. He had tried everything to make it go away again, but he supposed it was rather fitting. Sherlock had kept it with him until he died, almost keeping it from hurting John, upsetting him. He liked to think of it in those terms, although he knew it wasn’t true. And he would have hated it. But still.

No more jogs around London for him, but that had never stopped him. And next time, not even an old friend calling him would stop him. He gave up on everything and everyone, and everyone and everything had given up on him. Nothing happened to him anymore, and he was quite content with it. Well, not exactly, but he accepted that. If something did change in his life, people would die. People he’d grow fond of, or people he’d get to love as brothers before watching them being ripped away from him. Just like Sherlock, just like his friends in the war. He couldn’t stand that, not again.

To be honest, he hadn’t seen it coming. He had known Sherlock would probably die on the line of action, just as he knew he would, like he should have in Afghanistan. What he expected was to be shot again, his body a shield between the detective and death, or the other way round perhaps. Perhaps that would have made him feel better. He still would have seen it happen, he’d still feel guilty about it, but he would not feel like this. So hollow. As if his insides had been tore away from his body, and he had been left lifeless and empty like a bullet’s shell. He would have felt as if all the good things in his life had been shot out of him. But instead, he felt as if that bullet had exploded without being fired, both it and its shell destroyed uselessly. Shredded in a million tiny pieces.

He sipped his coffee again, closing his eyes as the cold of that December morning entered his bones. Caffeine was the closer he got to adrenaline, as of lately, but he couldn’t complain. He stretched and let go of his cane for a moment to tug the scarf around his neck higher, to cover his chin.

John would never understand why he’d taken it. He had watched as Sherlock’s body was taken away, slipped right from his fingers. And he had begged, pitiful in his pain and uncaring of how ridiculous he must have sounded, he had begged to have something of him, anything he could. What was left at Baker Street was either too little or too much. His violin, which Sherlock touched with reverence; his skull, the same one that had been his friend before John himself; his dressing gowns, both of them, in which he used to sulk; the deerstalker that he hated, and had tossed at John only a little before the end of their days together. And then all the letters stacked on the mantelpiece, the Cluedo board on the wall, and the things in his bedroom, where John daren’t step. There wasn’t his coat, not his phone nor magnifying glass, not his favourite shirt nor his scarf. Before too soon he couldn’t stand the sight of any of it, and by the day of Sherlock’s funeral he had gone and moved out already, leaving everything exactly as it was, except for a beaker that had been on their kitchen table. He had threw it against the wall in a fit of impotent rage, and was about to threat the rest of his Chemistry set to the same courtesy, before it dawned on him what he had just done. Then he had crumpled on the floor, not crying, wheezing; unable to breathe, lungs crushed painfully.

He had packed and left moments later.

And so he had went to St. Bart’s, to the Metropolitan Police, he talked to everyone he had to, he stood still and replied to their questions about Sherlock as they investigated “his death, his implications with ‘Moriarty’, if he even existed”, they said. They went back to the very first day, when he met Sherlock. A Study in Pink. They said the murderer had the case, that the victim’s phone was in Baker Street because Sherlock had it on him, they said the cabbie was a victim – tricked by Sherlock, under the false name of Moriarty, _forced_ to kill.

John had insisted and protested, until they gave him something they didn’t need. Sherlock’s scarf, the only one of his belonging they deemed safe enough to be given to him. John didn’t want to know if they’d tore the coat apart to look for secret pockets or messages embedded in the creases of his coat, sewed on the collar maybe. That stupid collar… The more John thought about it, the more he found Sherlock really had a fixation with turning his collar up. He didn’t think about it often, but he found that this kind of things came to his mind at any given moment. Sometimes he would be reading a book, and small things would pop into his head. Not even triggered by anything. He’d stare at a dot on the page and think about the silence in the room. The lack of gunshots, of a violin screeching, even the lack of Sherlock’s silence made this silence different. Heavy, empty, painful. Or he’d look out of the window and think about making tea, remembering how Sherlock liked his.

He sighed and tucked his chin in the scarf, comfortably warmed by it. He had washed it when they gave it to him, to be sure and wash out all the blood and chemical substances used for the analysis on it. He didn’t care that it didn’t hold Sherlock’s scent anymore. He was happy of that, actually. He had never been familiar with it, not from this short of a distance, and he didn’t want to become so now that he was gone.

John shook his head after a moment. He had nothing to do, but neither did he have intention of wasting another day on a park bench, longingly thinking about the past. He opened his eyes again and jumped a bit, startled by a child that was now sitting beside him. She was a young little thing, with light blonde hair and ragged clothes, thin and a bit beaten by the events. John wondered if Sherlock knew her parents or something, working like he had with the town’s homeless people to form his “network”.

Hesitating, John licked his lips and moved the scarf away from his face, looking into the girl’s clever brown eyes before talking.

“Hi. Can I help you with something?” he asked. God, his voice felt raw, as if he hadn’t used it in days. Which was almost true.

The girl remained silent. She looked at him intently, studying his face for a moment, as if looking for something. And then she pointed at him. “I’m cold,” she said in a voice that sounded much too sure to belong to a ten years old.

John frowned and reached for his pocket, pulling out a pair of gloves. He handed them to her, with a small smile. “Here, put these on.”

But the girl shook his head, barely acknowledging his gesture. “I’m cold,” she repeated, her small finger still jutting out accusingly at John, as if it was all his fault. He looked down at himself, and realization dawned on him.

“I can’t give this to you,” he said, putting a hand on his scarf, defensively. “I can buy you a scarf, if you want, but I can’t give you this one,” he offered patiently, trying not to bristle at the mere thought of having to give such an important thing away. “It’s old, and it smells, and you really don’t want it.” He put his gloves back in his pocket and fished in his jacket for his wallet, to give the girl some money. But the moment he opened it, she stood and pulled at the ends of the scarf, unwrapping it from around his neck in one quick, practised movement.

John’s head snapped up and his eyes widened, his heart hammering in his chest and thundering in his ears. This was it: adrenaline, at being robbed. He felt it surge in his body as he sprang to his feet, rush through his veins as he pushed his wallet back in his pocket, the unfinished paper cup of coffee he had put on the bench toppling to the ground because of the sudden movement, his cane sliding lower but catching in one of the gaps between the wooden planks. It didn’t clatter to the ground, but even if it had, it wouldn’t have been regarded by John, his ears filled by the girl’s childish giggle as she turned around and ran away.

And John followed suit, sprinting behind her, far too out of shape to keep up, but too preoccupied with getting the scarf back. His scarf, _his_ scarf. Sherlock’s.

The girl was out of the park within moments, her tiny feet slapping noisily against the concrete of London’s empty sidewalks, the rhythm of her running quick as it reverberated around the tall buildings. The few people on the streets didn’t move for her, but they moved for John: where she slipped between bodies and under legs, John had to jump and avoid, but soon they caught up to what was happening, and luckily no one tried to stop John for wanting to harass a child. It was exhilarating, almost, to have a whole crowd to part for you, so you can run after the one and only thing left of your past life.

She turned various corners, and at some point John almost had to stop because his lungs burnt too much. Just where was she going? Was she trying to lose John? Because if so, she was doing a poor job of it. But maybe she was tired, too, because she slowed down as much as John had! He sprinted one last time, to try and catch her, but then she sped up once more. With a curse barely held between his teeth, John resumed his pursuit.

But it felt strange. He had ran after enough people in town, criminals and mad detectives and whatnots, and he had been followed by enough of the same kind, really, to know that when you’re trying to distance someone you don’t go for large, well lit streets where you can be easily spotted. You go and try to take advantage of everything you can, in particular of your size if you’re small enough to be able to hide in the smallest nook in a wall, or to slip underneath a dumpster.

_It’s almost as if she wants me to follow her_ , John thought before turning in yet another street.

 

He tried to work the words out of his throat, but they seemed to be stuck there, uncomfortably, just like swallowing an ice cube. You know it’s not there, but you still feel it stuck in your oesophagus way after it melted. When he did manage to speak, his voice was broken and pathetically weak.

“Sherlock…” he all but whispered, accepting his hand and help to stand up. He staggered back, letting go immediately, as if the contact had burnt him. And it did, in a way. The last time he had touched that hand, it was moments away from becoming dead cold. Or so he thought.

Sherlock regarded him with the same eyes as always, quicksilver and smart, and with the same smile as always. There were few little lines around his eyes and mouth, showing that time had moved on for him as well. Not a ghost, then, but a real, living human being, his scarf back around his neck as if it had never left it. Living, and smiling at him. The usual condescending smile. The one that said ‘You’re my best friend, John, but you’re still an idiot’.

Suddenly, a fit of rage surged through John’s body, and he found himself shaking. So, it’s no surprise that when Sherlock opened his mouth to speak John reached to grab that same scarf he had worn for the past two years, then threw his arm back and forward again, punching the not-so-dead-after-all detective square in the nose.


	2. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "His life was back to what it used to be, more or less. He was, once again, lonely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unbetaed. Please, signal every mistake you spot! Thank you for reading! :)  
> Time to switch to Side B of our fanmix!

Bright. Had London’s sky always been so bright?, Sherlock thought, his nose in the air as he watched the thick fog and the slow moving grey clouds, regarding the English sun fighting to filter through that blanket with a long sigh. It looked like a perfectly rounded sphere, despite being so far away, the clouds smoothing the rays of light away from around it. Sherlock smiled as he thought it telling.

Terribly bright, and people could only watch it through a filter that takes the sharp edges away. A bit like his brain. Too smart for people to like him, unless John is there to make him more bearable, more tolerant, more human.

Sherlock sighed and buttoned his coat all the way up to his neck, tugging the collar up to defend himself from the cold. After all, his scarf was still with John. Not the only thing he had left, but the only thing he seemed to have wanted to keep. At first, Sherlock had thought it strange. Now, he wouldn’t have it any other way. He was sad to see the “For Rent” sign in front of Baker Street, despite knowing perfectly well that all of Mrs Hudson’s possible new buyers were kept at bay by Mycroft’s men, redirected somewhere else, in a house that would better suit their needs. With that excuse, all of Sherlock stuff had remained untouched. His brother had promised the landlady that he’d take care of all that rubbish when the flat would be rented again.

So, since then, and until the day of his return, 221b was still theirs. His and John’s.

He had sneaked in, once, months after his fall from Bart’s rooftop, to retrieve a few items he had needed – his magnifying glass, a pair of gloves, his money, his scarf – and found everything still in its place, except for John’s stuff and a beaker. Obviously John had moved out, he knew that, that was the reason he had allowed himself to sneak in in the first place, but still it filled Sherlock with uneasiness to know that his best and only friend was gone, had left behind all that there was of their lives together.

Sherlock had noticed a discoloration in the kitchen’s wallpaper, from where John had probably thrown the missing beaker, and he felt guilty enough to leave immediately. But not before looking for his scarf, and finding no trace of it, when all of his other belongings had been discarded as evidence and returned to the flat. It was obvious that John had it.

And so he had waited to see him walk by, something he had promised himself he wouldn’t do, but he still did because he had to be sure, he told himself. Crouching behind a dark corner like a thief waiting for the perfect victim to assault. But when he did see John, he almost jumped out to tell him that no, he was fine, everything was fine. Because John was, yes, wearing his scarf, but he was also using his cane. Again. The same one Sherlock had kicked away and proved John he didn’t need.

 

He wondered if it was because of John’s own fall. He had seen him being hit by that bicycle, and falling badly to the ground. But it had been three months already, so maybe he had even broken his leg? But he saw his stance, and he felt even guiltier upon knowing the answer, and so he ducked behind his corner and threw one last glance at John before running away in the direction he had come from.

John looked so very, very hurt.

That was the last of him he saw for twelve months. Because he then threw himself soul and body into his job, the reason he was allowing John to think he was dead in the first place. Unravelling Moriarty’s network. Had he known it would have taken so long, he would have taken John with him. He probably would have been quicker and more efficient at it, despite how much more difficult hiding would have been.

Then he thought back of the way he had to live – dirty rooms in the underground of more than one European city, running and hiding, eating scraps and missing the warmth of a cup of tea, or of a fireplace, fighting for his life every day, trying desperately to survive to return home – and closed his eyes tightly, reaching to rub his left arm, where a fracture had long since healed incorrectly.

He looked at his feet, his worn out shoes changed with a new pair Mycroft had given him as a welcome back gift. Black leather polished so much it was shining in the dim light of the winter day. He sighed, the condensation looking like the smoke of a cigarette he had been craving for months. Smoking was the habit he had chosen to fall back into. Better than drugs, anyway, especially while investigating a drug ring.

Sherlock rubbed at his forehead as he thought back on that – the underground warehouse filled with German drug-dealers, he alone with a gun and a small radio he was bound to use to call reinforcements when needed, bullets whizzing over his head as someone spotted him, the fire he had set engulfing drugs and dealers alike, the rough brick wall behind of which he had sought refuge scraping the back of his head as he leaned against it, ears sharply focused on hearing the steps of the man looking for him, gun held against his chest and ready to fire while his other arm dangled useless and broken on his other side – and promptly tried to remove the memory once more.

It was as if his Mind Palace had shut down. He couldn’t move memories around as he used to, the lack of time or occasions to rearrange everything making a toll on his abilities, the fear of deleting a small yet vital information crippling. He had never had to rely so much on his intellect; he had never had to use it to actually survive. He thought the life he had in London, with John, was dangerous. It had been a dream, a game.

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and let the right one curl around the papers he found there, swallowing hard. That’s right. He had felt so pathetic about that, but after a year with no contact with his old life, other than his brother and the help he could occasionally provide, Sherlock had found himself pathetically pleading him to help him once more. To give him a reason to go on, when he was on the verge of falling, really falling, far lower than what the jump from St. Bart’s rooftop had caused – alone, helpless, scared, a child wandering in the dark – and so Mycroft had given it to him.

A picture, simple as that. A picture of John. Smiling, although sadly, probably at some old memory that he still dared to recall even as he tried to forget. Because Sherlock knew he was trying to go on, to forget everything. He had seen it on his blog, the rare times he allowed himself to check it, to see if there was a new update. He never read about their old cases, or it would have broken him. He spent his time reading about how he was struggling to move on, and finally managing to. He knew how hard it was, because he still couldn’t allow himself to.

He caressed the dog-ears, smoothed down the creases in the middle of it, touched the dents in the paper from where it had been stepped on, fingered the dried blood on it. He had often looked at it after being wounded, when his resolve would falter even more. And even though he’d never admit it, he had often gripped it tight to his chest, reading Mycroft’s note over and over. “ _Remember why you are doing this._ ”

He had seen half of the world with that picture in his pocket, and fought the other half, and even after dismantling Moriarty’s spider web and when his life turned bearable once more, even then he still clung onto it. Because he had decided, after so long, to let John be. He had returned to London, true, but that didn’t mean he was home. It probably was a mistake, he thought at the time, to be there. Maybe John missed their times together, but that was it. Maybe Sherlock was just something in his past he longed for, like the war, but to which he’d never return.

After all, he had managed to move on, in the end. Sherlock had seen it. Since long, he had noticed a woman’s signature on his blog. Someone new, whom he didn’t know, and thus new in John’s life. Sherlock had smirked at first, remembering how easy it was for John to flirt with women. His numerous girlfriends proved it. But they never lasted, and it wasn’t always his fault, so Sherlock didn’t expect this “Mary” to stay with John for long.

But he was wrong. When he kept seeing her name, he had asked Mycroft. He had assured him that she was a good woman, a teacher, and apparently she really liked John. Well, she was with him despite that horrendous moustache, so of course she liked him. Sherlock’s first reaction upon seeing it was laughing, but not with mirth. He had laughed hysterically, the fits of giggles almost painful, as he thought that if he had been in Baker Street with John, still, he would have prevented him from doing such a distasteful choice.

And so, finally, one day Sherlock had enough. He found out where John and Mary were having their rendezvous and followed them, more than determinate in swooping in and reclaiming his flatmate and friend, ruining yet one more relationship.

But when he had arrived at the restaurant, all he could do was sit at the far off table and hide behind a menu all night long, ducking into the toilet when they stood to leave. John didn’t even notice his billowing coat as he passed dangerously close to their table on his way to the refuge of the restroom. And, Sherlock thought bitterly, why would he have noticed him? He was too busy looking lovingly at his girlfriend. A beautiful woman, undoubtedly, but still Sherlock couldn’t shake away the uneasiness upon witnessing their date.

It was different. John had never looked at any of his previous partners like that. He had never seen such love in his gaze towards someone. He couldn’t help but envy her.

So he had returned to Europe. England wasn’t the only nation requiring his services. He worked as a consulting detective once more, keeping in the shadows, his name in the dark, voices spreading about this prodigious superhuman who went around disembroiling mysteries like they were poorly knitted jumpers.

His life was back to what it used to be, more or less. He was, once again, lonely. Like he was before John, without even knowing it. He was, once again, working on the bright side of the law. But he still wasn’t happy.

So he jumped on the occasion when Mycroft called him, asking for his help with a governmental matter, and despite being sorry for John he also needed to return. He craved to be back in London, to live there again. And since Mycroft had told him things between Mary and John hadn’t worked, and John still limped through the streets of London, Sherlock decided to make a show of it.

He smiled when he heard the hurried footsteps coming down Baker Street, and he turned the corner in time to see John run after Heather, the girl he had asked to do this for him. He knew John wouldn’t have been able to say no to a child, that he’d do anything to help her, get distracted and become an easy target to a robbery. And he knew he’d do anything to keep that scarf.

But he expected John to glance up, see him, and halt dead in his tracks while he stopped and paid Heather, not to fall over his face.

“Hand me the scarf,” he told her, smiling as he handed her a wad of cash. She grinned mischievously up at him, and Sherlock chuckled, patting her shoulder. “Good, off you go now. And thank you,” he added.

Then he approached John, trying to school his expression. He was this close to grinning like a child, but John was in pain, that surely wasn’t a good reason to smile. So he draws in a blank expression and outstretched his arm.

“Need a hand?” he asked, looking down at his friend. He let his lips curl in a slow smile as he reached out to accept his help.

“Thank you so mu-…” John started to say, but when he looked up and their eyes met, he was so in shock he could only try and stutter Sherlock’s name a few times.

Once he pulled him back onto his feet, Sherlock allowed his smile to grow, even as John let go of him and took a step back. He opened his mouth, ready to say something quirky to him, the words ‘ _It’s good to see you on your own two legs again_ ’ sounding better than ‘ _I fixed you again, haven’t I?_ ’ in his own head, but he’d never know what John thought about them.

Actually, Sherlock would have fallen to the ground weren't it for John's hold on his scarf, arm raised to punch him again.


	3. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill- there's a mistake, tell me please! I hope you like it! Comments and kudos are appreciated.  
> Well... Happy Sherlock Day, the Reichenfeels are over!  
> Enjoy this through your tears!

Sherlock raised both his hands defensively when John prepared himself to swing again. He stared at him, eyes wide and uncharacteristically scared, the shock of his newly bleeding nose enough to make him flounder for words for a full twenty seconds. John’s hand shook as he stared at him, his face contorted in rage, trying to fight the urge to beat the detective’s face to a pulp.

“Wait!” is all he managed to plead of the doctor when he found his voice again.

John wanted to scream in his face, and so he did. “What the hell, Sherlock?!” he yelled, putting his hand down, but only to fist it around the lapel of Sherlock’s coat. “What the hell?!”

Sherlock looked down at his former flatmate, and hesitated in replying.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and that gained him a rough shove in the chest from John, who pushed him away and turned around, hands on his hip and chest, shaking his head. He was trying to breathe normally again, to push the rage away, to keep calm and try to walk away.

“John, please,” Sherlock insisted, stepping forward, putting one hand on his elbow.

“Don’t,” John warned him, spinning around again and slapping his hand away. “Two years! And what you do, how do you decide to return from the dead? Like this!” he said with a bitter laugh. “What else should I have expected?” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. Then, after a long pause, he sighed: “Why, Sherlock?”

Sherlock licked his lips and retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing his bleeding nose with it. “I just… I was proving a point,” he said, and quickly added at John’s murderous expression: “I mean, you! Your leg! I… I wanted to fix you again…” _Mostly to prove myself I still could change your life_ , he almost added.

John regarded him with a wary look, and glanced down at his leg. It was true. It was back to work, just like he had suspected. Sherlock was the one keeping the limp from him. He almost wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of all that.

“Please. Allow me to explain, John. I owe you a thousand apologies.”

John looked up at the detective and took a deep breath, letting the air out of his nose. “You owe me far more than that, you dickhead,” he said, conceding Sherlock his explanations.

\---

They had entered Speedy’s Café. Sherlock had greeted Mrs Hudson as if nothing strange was going on, and the poor woman almost fainted on the spot. But she didn’t, in favour of going and hitting Sherlock’s back repeatedly with the magazine she had been reading upon their entering, all the while crying about how unreasonable, maddening, impossible and stupid he was, and about how much she had missed him, which was followed by a long hug and comforting words being mutually exchanged by everyone. Mrs Hudson even went and hugged John, sobbing into his shoulder about how much she missed the mess on the upper floor.

Then they had sat down at a table, Sherlock forced to eat a whole lunch by Mrs Hudson as he went on explaining, and the doctor and landlady alike just stared as he wolfed down everything they put in front of him while he recounted of the long months spent huddling in cold sewers and dark alleys and damp warehouses; the time spent travelling the world in secret, solving its problems and saving lives, always alone, always craving for John’s presence besides him. That’s when he admitted that he would have been back earlier, he would have taken John with him in the past year, but didn’t want to disrupt his peace and so he had kept at bay.

Mrs Hudson left them alone after that, and they both talked about how hard life had been for each of them.

They often found themselves thinking back on that day. The day Sherlock moved back to Baker Street, and the day John realized that life had given him a second chance. He wasn’t going to let it go.

And so, after a couple of weeks, he moved back as well, the familiar walls welcoming him back with their warmth and absurd wallpaper, soft violin music reverberating in the no longer empty house. The graffiti on the wall wasn’t mocking him anymore: it was greeting the both of them with the most beautiful of smiles, as if it had missed them. Just like matching the one John had seen outside.

“Did you do that?” John asked, referring to the defaced ‘For Rent’ sign still hanging on the wall. It was now covered in bullet holes, and a cheery yellow face had been painted on the wall, as well as over it.

Sherlock hadn’t replied, of course. He had simply lifted his bow from the violin, smiled at John, and resumed his performance. The doctor could only scoff and sink down in his armchair, stroking his now bare upper lip with his thumb and forefinger. It would take him a while to get used to being moustacheless.

Soon, they had fallen back in a comfortable routine of case-solving, flat-sharing and flatmate-watching.

Because it was as if, all of a sudden, they had lost all ability to look away from each other whenever it wasn’t necessary. John would look at Sherlock when they were on a crime scene, and in turn Sherlock would stare at John while they watched television, as if to make sure the other was still there. As if they were afraid of getting lost, again.

Neither of them seemed to find anything strange in that, either. The issue only came out about a month after John had moved back in. He had picked up Sherlock’s coat from the floor, where it had fallen when he had closed the front door. He replaced it onto the hook behind said door, and glanced down when something caught his attention. John picked it up, and found it was a picture of himself. It was battered and ruined, bloodied, but still clearly recognizable.

“Sherlock, what is this?” he had asked, looking at the detective, who was lying down on the couch with his hands steepled under his chin, rearranging information in his head to try and make order from chaos. When he glanced up, though, he blushed guiltily and sat up, swinging his legs off the side of the couch.

“I… I missed you, and asked Mycroft for a picture. Just like you with the scarf,” he said, staring at John’s feet.

John blushed back, and looked back down at the abused photograph. “Well, yes,” he admitted, although with insight he found that owning another’s piece of clothing was a bit more intimate than keeping a mere picture of them. He didn’t say that, but licked his lips.

A small silence settled between them, neither tense nor awkward, but still there. It wasn’t easy, either. It was the silence of things unsaid, of doors never opened and steps never taken. Of choices made, of occasions lost, but also of new possibilities awaiting them. But this time John didn’t want to have any regret, if he could help it. And so he walked to the couch and sat down besides Sherlock, photograph still in hand, looking at him.

Sherlock returned his gaze for a long moment, studying his face. Then, he shuffled closer, just as John shifted close as well: their knees bumped together, and John laughed nervously as Sherlock blushed.

“I just…” the latter whispered, biting his lips. He then stood abruptly, took John’s notebook and pen, and scribbled something on a page he then tore off. He put book and pen away again and left the room.

John listened nervously at the hurried steps going down the stairs, to the front door opening and then closing moments later, and then to those same steps return up to their flat. He stood and watched as Sherlock strutted to the couch and plopped down again, and John imitated him.

“Um…?”

“Sorry, I had to,” Sherlock interrupted John’s pathetic attempt at talking. He was sitting closer now, and he turned towards the doctor with a strange glint in his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t return earlier. I couldn’t stand the thought of ruining yet another relationship. She… seemed nice. I thought it might have lasted.”

John looked into his honest eyes and nodded. “Yeah, me too,” he said, biting his bottom lip before adding: “I guess it isn’t your fault if I always get dumped, eh?”

“I think it is, but not in the way you mean it,” Sherlock said, seriously. “You think about me too much. You care too much.”

“Well, if not me, then who?” John asked, startling Sherlock. He had expected him to be offended, to deny, and to be honest so had John. But he guessed that was all it was about: honesty. It was time to try and be honest with each other, and Sherlock seemed to understand that if the look in his eyes was anything to go by. “How long have you been uselessly jealous of my girlfriends?” John asked, his lips curved in amusement.

Sherlock’s own lips twitched in reply, and he looked down at their touching knees. “Since the beginning.”

John nodded at that, and he moved his face closer to Sherlock’s. The detective looked up, sharp eyes glinting softly in the light of the low winter sun. He moved closer as well, and they were mere inches apart when John whispered: “Have you ever…”

To which, Sherlock replied: “Yes. You…?”

“No,” John’s reply was quick, but he was still smiling. “I mean, not with a man.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, their noses brushing together lightly. “Then you have…”

“Upstairs, yes,” John confirmed before the words were even past Sherlock’s lips.

They looked at each other closely, and then both nodded. “I’ll wait in my room,” Sherlock said, standing slowly, and John followed him on his feet, soon on his tiptoes to keep the distance between their eyes even.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised, and with that, he pressed his lips softly to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

The detective eyes fluttered closed, and he breathed through his nose as he counted the steps going to the second floor and to John’s room. He turned around and opened his eyes again, walking quickly to his own bedroom, leaving the door partially open. He knew John would take a moment to return, steeling himself pretty much as Sherlock was doing right now.

Sherlock considered undressing, but ended up removing only his robe, hanging it on the hook behind the door, stroking the fabric gently. Then he had sat on the bed, unsure of what else to do. He turned the bedside table lamp on, the quickly setting sun soon leaving the room dark. Soon after, John’s steps were descending again. The doctor paused outside the door, before opening it. He had removed his jumper, shoes and socks, and his belt too. Sherlock smiled softly at him as John entered and closed the door behind him, putting on the nightstand two small packages and a bottle.

“We don’t have to do anything… invasive,” Sherlock said tentatively, trying to keep his embarrassment hidden.

“Yes, I know,” John said, considering his options before straddling Sherlock’s legs, sitting in his lap

Sherlock blushed and nodded, making John chuckle and wrap his arms around his neck. That simple gesture, that sound, their vicinity: they made Sherlock relax immediately. He put his hands on John’s hips and eyed his features for a moment, waiting for a sign. When John gave a small nod, Sherlock inhaled deeply and leaned forward, meeting John halfway.

The press of their mouths was tentative and exploratory, but not shy. John was sure of his technique, and Sherlock was sure of his kissing partner. They brushed their lips together for a few moments, finding the angle that wouldn’t make their nose press together awkwardly, allowing their hands to find purchase on each other. John’s hand twined in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock’s in John’s button-up.

Then John parted his lips, and Sherlock followed suit, letting his tongue reach out to touch John’s tentatively. John sighed, as if relieved by the normalcy of it all. He shifted his weight from one knee to the other and licked at Sherlock’s upper lip before letting himself go to the mutual stroking of tongues.

Sherlock’s grip on John’s shirt faltered, but only so he could stroke his back instead, soon tugging the tails of fabric free from John’s trousers, slipping warm fingers underneath it.

John moaned into his mouth, his hands moving to go and lift Sherlock’s t-shirt, hesitating a moment before stroking his lower stomach and up to his chest. This earned him a moan from the detective, and he laughed breathlessly as the kiss fell into pace.

Their hands travelled everywhere on each other’s body. When Sherlock was done mapping the muscles of John’s back, his fingers moved to regard the soldier’s chest, tracing the scar on his shoulder, while John moved to caress the detective’s smooth back, touching every inch he could.

Soon, the kiss grew heated, their mouths eagerly pressing together, tongues pushing against one another. They broke it with a gasp, and looked at each other with matching blushes on their cheeks.

“Let me,” Sherlock said, unbuttoning John’s shirt, just as John started to pull at Sherlock’s t-shirt with a soft murmur of: “Can I…?”

They laughed at that, and pressed more kisses into one another’s face. They pulled away only to take their clothes off, Sherlock pushing John’s shirt easily out of the way while John uncovered the detective blemished chest with a small gasp of surprise.

“Did you get these while you were away?” he asked, tracing each and every small scar with his fingers.

Sherlock nodded. “Except for these,” he said, showing the crook of his left elbow, marred by old syringe scars, a nicotine patch plastered few inches beneath. John smiled at it, caressing Sherlock’s arm tenderly. Sherlock squirmed and laughed, making John grin.

“Ticklish?” he asked, caressing the man’s sides.

Sherlock shook his head with all the conviction he could while giggling, and John joined in as he cupped his face and pulled him close for another kiss, which he returned.

Then, Sherlock’s hands moved to John’s trousers, and John thought that would be it: he’d ask him to stop, too nervous, maybe even scared by the prospect of having sex with another man. But instead, surprisingly, he simply reached for Sherlock’s trousers, tugging them down along with his pants, only to have them catch against the bed.

“Wait,” Sherlock gasped, pushing John aside onto the bed, looking at him as he tugged his clothes down his legs, lying back on the bed and arching his back to slip them off.

John nodded in understanding and did the same, smiling at Sherlock as they both lied there, undressing, bodies radiating heat and arousal as both their erections were freed. The doctor was even ready to roll back onto Sherlock, but the detective was faster. As soon as John’s trousers were off, he found himself with an amorous lapful of Sherlock Holmes. He laughed, and so did Sherlock. And it felt so easy to be in bed with him, as if they had been doing just that all along.

Their hands resumed to their exploring, caressing legs and chests, shoulders and waists, hipbones and soft cheeks. Their voices broke over each other’s names, and their moans filled the air softly. 

After longs minutes, Sherlock sat up. He reached back on the nightstand for their supplies, and John could only watch as he towered beautifully over him, and smile, touching his skin and causing the detective to sigh in pleasure. The doctor’s gaze fell between their bodies, and he blushed at the sight of their cocks red and hard, so close to one another. He only looked away when Sherlock handed him a condom. He tore the package with his teeth and moved to roll it on, but Sherlock was faster and put the one he was holding on John, making him gasp and arch his back.

“I never thought you’d be so sensitive,” Sherlock breathed with a smile, watching as John reached to do the same with him, biting his lips. But he couldn’t help the moan that came from his throat at the feeling of John’s fingers brushing his skin.

“Said he,” John retorted. Sherlock blushed guiltily, and squirted some lube over his fingers, licking his lips before moving his hand between their bodies and circling both of their erections with it. “Give me your hand,” he gasped, and John obeyed breathlessly. When his hand was slick with lube, he imitated Sherlock and closed the circle around them.

They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, then leaned in to kiss each other. That’s when Sherlock rolled his hips, and their moans filled the air once more. John started moving soon after, trying to match Sherlock’s pace and squeezing his hand, causing Sherlock to do the same and tighten around their arousals. That only made them move faster, moan louder, and squeeze harder, so much that soon they couldn’t even kiss anymore. Sherlock propped himself up with one harm, looking down at John, their chests almost flush, their lips touching with every movement, their eyes locked like magnets.

“John,” Sherlock soon moaned, gasping. “I-I’m close,” he whispered, a bit ashamed of how little he had managed to keep going.

“M-me too, it’s fine, just… Just let go,” John whispered back, cupping his neck with his free hand and pulling him down for a kiss, biting his lips.

And with that simple gesture, Sherlock came, back arching and hand closing tightly around them, causing John to gasp and squeeze as well, and to come a moment later.

Sherlock collapsed on top of him, panting, and John was thankful for the lack of mess. He hugged Sherlock tightly, and manoeuvred them on the bed so they were laying their heads on the pillow. Then, when his mind was clear enough, he reached and pulled the condoms off, tying them and resting them on the nightstand.

“That… That was…” Sherlock whispered, and John hushed him gently, stroking his hair.

“Yes, it was,” he whispered with a small chuckle. The detective hummed and closed his eyes.

John simply watched him for a moment, before asking: “What was it you wrote on that note?”

Sherlock smiled, and didn’t reply. He simply leaned in and kissed John again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that's it! There may be more drawings added later, so keep an eye on this work for updates, if you want!  
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An unbetaed and short epilogue.

Sherlock woke up to the feeling of lips pressing against his skin, followed by the light brush of fingertips.

The sensation was repeated, over and over again: kiss, touch, lips, fingers, until he realized the kisses were following the caresses and not the other way round. He also realized what John was kissing when he felt his fingertips linger a bit against a specific spot on his skin that Sherlock knew really well.

John’s fingertips were touching gingerly the scar from a bullet wound he got as a reward for trying – and failing – to save a man’s life.

“Poland,” he whispered, his voice still gruff with sleep. “I got shot so I would learn my place while a man was killed because of what he’d done. Which was trying to help his family and stopping helping Moriarty’s men from his position in the Polish government,” he said, reaching to take John’s hand, squeezing it. He directed it to his pectorals, and made him graze the web of thin scars there.

“France,” he said. John was silent, watching. “I was tortured for a while. A rich drug dealer found it was fun to watch, and I guess it was until the Japanese mafia got in and killed them all. They had gotten a… hint that their biggest European rival was there, by some anonymous benefactor,” he said with a bitter smile.

John’s eyes followed his movements for a while, but then focused on Sherlock’s face as he talked about this and that place, or one scar rather than the other. He wasn’t really listening anymore, and after a while pressed them down to Sherlock’s lips, sweetly silencing him.

When they broke apart, Sherlock finished his interrupted sentence with a whisper: “…and it worked.”

John chuckled at that, and reached to stroke a few curls out of Sherlock’s face. “Yeah, I’m sure it did,” he said just as softly, making Sherlock smile and roll his eyes.

“We match, now,” he said, and John’s smile left place to a small, confused frown that made Sherlock grin.

He brought John’s hand back to the bullet scar, and touched John’s shoulder with light fingers, silently sending him a message: they were the same now. They had the same mark, the mark of trying to save a life and failing. One shot to be kept a bay, the other by chance while he knelt in the desert.

Sherlock dropped his hand, and they stared into each other’s eyes in silence for a moment. Then, John pushed himself up on his knees and braced himself against the bed’s headboard, splaying his hand on Sherlock’s chest, and said: “Haven’t we always?”

They both smiled as their lips touched again.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did promise a small extra, hadn't we? ;) Here it is, hope you enjoy it! Thanks for sticking with us! :)

**Author's Note:**

> I'd say, we are borderline LATE. D: Sorry about it, university and work mixed with the right dose of procrastination from my part slowed both me and whonjatsons down.  
> But the series airs tomorrow, and so you'll get the rest of the story before it. ;) Stay tuned!  
> Please, consider buying me a coffee on [my ko-fi page](http://ko-fi.com/stravaganza)! I'd really appreciate your support!


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